


Violentia est Absolutio

by apeirophobia



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apeirophobia/pseuds/apeirophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During celebrations, rebels and pirates alike indulge themselves, Heracleo uses the distraction provided to take what he wants in a particularly cruel fashion, and Nasir is left to balance scale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tonight we drink to youth and immortality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TristansGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TristansGirl/gifts).



> A lovely thanks to Isolde, for encouragement! :]

The party is loud in a way that’s welcome, the sounds of cheering and singing and Lugo’s raucous laughter echoing off the city walls into the space

below, and it’s nothing like a battlefield in all the ways that matter. A moment of breath, a respite from the severity that seems to haunt their days, 

from sudden wake to exhausted end.     

                                                          

Nasir tries to take it all in, Gannicus and his friend the Blacksmith, giggling in a way that’s unbecoming of anyone who might grace a battlefield, 

let alone a former champion. Lugo tells a very animated story to two girls who wear jewels and corded leather and not very much else.

Even Nemetes, oft graced with a frown of discontent, slaps Donar on the back good-naturedly, and drinks liberally from the stocks provided by

the Sicilians. It’s almost overwhelming, being amongst all these people. Good people, brothers, friends, but still overwhelming. Little has been easy,

in task or temperament, since taking the city and this lightheartedness is welcome surprise. Nasir looks fondly over the crowd of _his_ people,

for better or for worse, and smiles unguarded.

 

 _Later, Nasir will recall this moment and think, in this moment someone was hurting_ my _Agron. He will think, how far away was I?_ _He will think of all_

_the fondness in_   _that moment, and how it now feels tainted._   _Regret feels heavier as a free man, but that moment feels heavier than most._

 

Agron had slipped away a little earlier with just a press of his lips to Nasir’s temple and a few muttered words, a distant look in his eyes. 

It didn’t give Nasir much pause, Spartacus was one to demand Agron’s presence at any time of day, and, if Nasir was feeling particularly bitter,

 _all_ times of the day. But his undying loyalty and infallible focus was what made Agron the man he was, made him the man that Nasir fell in love with,

so it would make him no small hypocrite to voice discontent with such traits. No more than he could fault Spartacus for having Agron first,

in a sense, even if it did come with inconveniences at times, having his heart play such a central role to the rebellion. But for the moment

he will do his best to forget such minor hindrance in the face of rare revelry.

 

_Now, is Nasir throwing his head back and laughing at the brash Sicilian’s attempts to coax him into being his bedfellow for the evening,_

_with honeyed words and_   _clear intent. Now, is Gannicus unknowingly coming to the rescue, draping his arm around Nasir and reeling him close,_

 _l_ _ike two lost friends who hadn’t seen each_   _other in years, pouting about the conspiracy that is both ‘their’ Germans abandoning them. Nasir pats his_

 _head consolingly, and considers telling Gannicus of seeing_   _Saxa leave the festivities early, another woman in tow, and purpose in her step. He is_

 _spared_ _having to make such decisions by a new wineskin, pray, home to_   _something stronger than wine, his third, perhaps?, being pressed into his_

 _hands,_ _courtesy of Donar._ Now, is Agron ignoring the blade pressed against his cheek, cool and deadly, in favor of pushing backwards, swinging fist

towards smirking face. Now is the echoes of violence in a deserted alleyway, the dull sound of boots hitting flesh and blood on the cobblestones.


	2. men without faces and cassandra truths (things that dwell in the dark)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the kudos, comments, and hits! It's very much appreciated! Hope you enjoy :]

When Agron is first pushed into the alleyway wall, he doesn’t feel fear, just a hybrid of annoyance and confusion. Fear is for older, or wiser, men,

and he has some naivete in him yet. The brashness of youth is what finds him alone on a night such as this, lightly armed and empty of stomach,

save for Pluto’s bathwater, or whatever was free-flowing earlier. He thinks of Spartacus pouring over his beloved maps in the villa above, finally

dismissing Agron and Crixus with a shake of his head, amused and exasperated in parts. He thinks of Nasir and their companions and the

celebrations he wishes to return to. It’s darker here, shadowed in the narrow space between stone walls, and Agron feels very cut off from the

world not twenty yards away. 

There’s a flash of steel and rough hands shoving and his teeth ache with the reverberations when his skull connects with the cobblestones. 

It takes his mind a moment to catch up to petty crime. The past year has been war, and the hell it brings, but for all the fighting there’s been

a certain safety to life off the battle field.  _This_ doesn’t happen, whatever  _this_ is. Agron touches his forehead, up above his left eye, and his fingers

don’t just come away wet, they come away slick with blood.

Confusion must be written upon his face, for Heracleo laughs, low and menacing. The moment the man had sauntered into Sinuessa, Agron

felt on edge. Every instinct said danger, snake,  _kill_. Something in his step was reminiscent of Ashur. But his smile...Agron knew what Death

smiled like. And he knew that it grinned while it stabbed you, whether in the back or in the chest. The pirate steps closer, close enough that

Agron would move to put distance between them if there were not stone at his back. “Leaving the festivities without your brothers, aye?”

Heracleo says, laughing again, but this time it bares a mockery of affection, as if they were friends exchanging pleasantries, nothing more.

Like he doesn’t have another of his crew guarding the mouth of the alleyway, marring any exit Agron might wish to make. Like he doesn’t hold

Agron’s dagger, newly repossessed in the initial struggle, a silent threat. A quiet threat, made loud when he holds the blade lightly against

Agron’s face, just under his eye, and presses gently. Agron swallows, trying to keep his breath steady, his heartbeat already flying, and

he doesn’t believe that Heracleo can not feel it, when he taunts, “Are you smart enough to be frightened, boy?”

 

Agron consider his fist to be answer enough.

* * *

The first boot under his ribs catches him by surprise, but it’s the kick to back of his kidneys, number sixth, perhaps?, that robs him of breath

and sense. Agron breathes shallowly against the cool stones, and tastes blood in his mouth. He does not care to understand the mind of the

enemy like Spartacus does, the mind of  _pirates,_ untrustworthy cunts that they are, even less so. But it is with no small amount of trepidation

that he wonders at Heracleo’s true purpose in cornering him this evening. Killing Spartacus’ right hand man seems a poor end to promising

negotiations, but then again, Agron is the pragmatism to Spartacus’ strategy for a reason, he thinks ruefully. His attempts to fight back have left

their mark on the pirate, but his minor injuries are a pale shadow of Agron’s own. Any time he stood chance of gaining the upper hand one of

Heracleo’s fellows would join in and brutally rectify the situation. The same thug now holds Agron down, one knee heavy against his shoulder

blades, leaving little room for movement and less for argument. It is obvious now that Heracleo did not come here for a fight,

he came for an assault, a dishonorable ambush. He came here to win.

There’s a hand, dry from too many days in the sun, palm rough from handling rope and sail more than sword, and it’s sliding across the small 

of his back, nails catching as it slides under tied cloth and buckled metal, and Agron thinks  _oh_ , thinks, _oh_ this _is what you wanted_. It is so simple

and so wrong. Every day Agron fights, for Spartacus, for Nasir, for Duro. He fights for the Brotherhood, and he fights for love and loyalty.

He fights for the innocence in his brother’s eyes, innocence that died with him. He’s never really fought for himself. What he fights for is an end

to  _this_. An end to people hurting other people for no  _fucking reason_. Sometimes, it seems, Agron forgets that he can be hurt too. A silly notion,

for a foolish boy, considering the life the rebels lead. Considering that he had his first kill before his first kiss. But the world is still vile, and

Agron is still foolish, and sometimes it seems, for all the Romans they’ve left dead in their paths, that nothing much has changed at all.

“You’re more trouble than I considered you to be,” Heracleo says, breathless and pleased, and Agron hears the unspoken thought of completion,

‘but not more trouble than you’re worth’. The pirate reaches down to stroke his hair, the side of his face, and it’s too much, too close to

good things, to _Nasir_ , to the only person who’s allowed to touch him like this, the only person who’s allowed to have him like this. He turns his

face away and flinches, the painful twist of his body pushing his torso out at an odd angle, making it difficult to draw breathe.

He thinks (you are not Trebias, you are not Batiatus) as fingers bruise and tear and burn, thinks, you are not _Rome_ , why do you hate me?

Thinks, _oh gods_ , as his legs are kicked apart and Heracleo leans closer still, his breath hot on Agron's neck. Everything, his involuntary gasps

of pain, Heracleo's licentious moans of pleasure, everything is starting to dull under the throbbing of his head and the rush of blood in his ears,

and Agron knows there are no gods here.


	3. reckless abandon (the things we do for love)

An eternity could have passed in that narrow alleyway, pressed between unforgiving stone and hot flesh, and Agron would have been none

the wiser to it. He is trapped, as much in his own mind as by Heracleo, a heavy weight against his back, crushing him. The other pirate lends

unnecessary assistance in holding him down as cruel hands inflict damage on any part of him they can reach. Heracleo digs his fingers into

the freshly bruised flesh of his flank and Agron yelps, his response as sudden as it is involuntary. There is shared laughter above his head and

Heracleo does it again, using his grip to drag Agron back against him, a harsh slapping of skin on skin. He knows not what sounds he makes

after that, deafened to his own cries by the sound of his own heart beating, so loud and fast he fears it might burst.

 

“Hush now,” says Heracleo’s comrade, carding his fingers almost gently through Agron’s hair, before digging in and wrenching his head back.

The chill of the evening is felt on the wet of his cheeks, and Agron realizes he must have been crying. He is confused by his body’s betrayal,

this unchecked show of weakness, even as more tears trek their way down his face, and onto the cobblestones below.

 

_Later, when his wounds are dressed and his bruises wrapped in soft cloth and he has a moment to breath (and hate himself) he’ll blame his_

_confusion for failing to anticipate further attack. Not that foretelling a monster’s inhumanity makes determination in final verdict. He had_

_realized the pirates to be of a dangerous, serpentine nature earlier that day, and yet, here he was. Alone, and at the mercy of men who made_

_up in depravity what they lacked in morals. But it is in the nature of those wronged without reason to turn venom inward in an attempt at control,_

_and Agron has never made excuses for himself, or the world._

 

Fingers trace over the hollows of his eyes, slick with tears. Running down the curve of his jaw to his mouth, lips pursed with pain,

teeth clenched tight. Fingers that smell of salt and iron, and roil the stomach. That taste of charcoal and rum. Agron gags.

The pirate says, “If you bite me, I will slit your throat, and your brothers will never find your body.”

Agron would give half a thought to the validity of that statement. But he knows the uncertainty only lies in whether anyone would discover what

had become of him, not in whether or not he would be dead. As the brute steps back and opens his belt, he also knows he doesn’t have a choice.

Various rebels and generals have often cursed his pragmatism, his astuteness, in the past, calling it unfeeling, calling it cold.

Later, he’ll recall a moment of suffocation and degradation and raw, selfish fear, and he’ll silently curse it too.

 

Because he _does feel_. He feels too much, until he doesn’t feel anything at all. And by the time the head pirate and his companion take their leave,

Agron feels numb to anything that could cause him further harm, and his vision is starting to go white. When Heracleo finishes, he hastily rights

his own clothing before leaning down and swearing blood and cum on the gladiator’s face. The flinch Agron gives in response is instinctual,

for he is no longer truly present. He’s dulled to the parting insult by physical shock and emotional upset. When the pirate speaks before leaving

the alley, more threat than parting words, Agron just gives him a dead stare. _Now is something forever a little more broken, in exchange for_

_minute satisfaction and an evening's entertainment. Now is shaking hands and ripped cloth and vomit on the cobblestones._

Now _is a gravest of all missteps an enemy could make, of wounding a warrior’s heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this update took so long! I'm still figuring out how everything on this sight works, as this is my first fic archived :] Thanks for reading, xo!


	4. words of consequence (held breath and broken hearts)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Nasir chapter! And the dots start to be connected!

There comes a point in the evening festivities when Nasir looks about him to discover that many of his closest companions have slinked off, making for bed or more intimate conversation, and he seems to find himself surrounded by rebels and pirates, most of an unfamiliar nature, in various states of high debauchery. Indeed, the party is winding to something of a close when even the great Gannicus is reduced to inelegant shuffling and sleepy moans. He has his head on Nasir’s shoulder and mutters a bit slurred about doe-eyed girls and majestic goddesses. Nasir hasn’t thrown him off for the sole reason that Agron still hasn’t rejoined celebrations. Nasir knows how Gannicus gets when taken to far too much drink, cuddly and wistful, and is merely withstanding such affections in Agron’s absence. It holds benefit to Nasir as well, having a former champion in close proximity keeps the less savory types away. 

 

Gannicus voices no protests to being used in such a manner, even going so far as to leer suggestively at the dark-skinned Sicilian with the too-charming smile when he returns to try his luck a second time. Castus, as the marauder introduces himself, is sure of words and easy of nature, but holds no more than a passing interest for Nasir. If he were an unencumbered man, perhaps then the smooth tongue and hard body would tempt him. But as the fates would have it he is far from unencumbered, and happily so.

 

“Not easily deterred, these sea-rats?” Gannicus asks incredulously, downing a swig from the wineskin Attius failed to drain before taking his leave. Nasir hums in agreeance, watching the pirate in question wander off, and frowning in thought. He doesn’t care for it, presumptuous men and their self-satisfied ways, but that is not what draws concern. It is the content of Castus’ words, more than their intent, that spoils thought and leaves him cold. Shrugging Gannicus off his shoulder, he makes to follow the pirate, and have answer. Gannicus protests being unsettled and shakes himself like a cat, looking quite rumpled and displeased.

 

“Perhaps you would be aided by clear drink and rest, to sharpen senses before the meeting at dawn, hmm?” Nasir placates, but he seeks to dismiss as much as console.

 

“Always speaking such _reason_ Nasir.” Gannicus replies dramatically, as if he is offended by Nasir’s good sense, but smiles when he says, “Though I imagine someone must do it,” and makes off, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “Little Spartacus”.

 

Nasir just laughs and makes for his own exit. He is tired, but more than that he is edgy, keyed up in the way he gets whenever he has to stand long periods of time without Agron’s presence. It’s not that they can not function without the other, it’s simply that _life_ works so much better when they are together. It’s hard to describe, the sense of calm that comes over him when they stand alongside each other on the battlefield, or better still, the feeling of being in each other’s arms. The only thing keeping him from retiring for the evening, and seeking loving arms once more, is a feeling of unrest caused by Castus’ earlier words. Seeing the pirate stand alone up just ahead, Nasir quickens his pace, catching him round the arm before he can slip out of sight.

 

Castus turns to face him. When realization comes as to who, exactly, has stopped him, his ever-present smile seems to brighten impossibly. 

“What meaning held, by earlier words?” Nasir rushes out, hoping to preempt whatever direction the pirate might have hoped to steer the conversation. Castus looks taken aback, but only for a moment. 

“I thought intentions were made clear” he says, a calculating look passing over his face as he assesses words spoken, and considers which could have been misunderstood. 

“When you spoke of my heart, you spoke as one who held intimate knowledge,” Nasir clarifies, pointed emphasis on _my heart_. “You boasted that he had forewent being of my side this evening, for the entreatment of other’s company,” he will not stand for feigned ignorance. Despite what his height and friendly disposition might lend people to assume, Nasir is never one to be trifled with, and in matters concerning Agron, even less so. Castus does not seem truly dangerous, no more a danger than Gannicus or any man that faces daily conflict between honor and baser desires, but there is a truth beneath his words, and Nasir knows it without reason in the sinking of his own stomach. “What. Meaning. _Held_.” Nasir repeats, breath released with the last word in a semblance of a hiss. 

“I simply meant that I believed him to be otherwise engaged, and found that you being without companionship a tragedy I would be only thrilled to rectify.” And for all his put-on charm Castus looks ernest, in that, at least. If this were a situation in which Nasir held any objectivity at all, he would let Castus go with that response. But it is not, and he can not afford to give anyone the benefit of the doubt, not in wartime, and not where Agron is concerned. And Castus might not be a bad man, but he is standing between Nasir and a truth that he desires, so for extended purposes he may well be one. 

“Who gave cause to this belief?” Nasir asks, and he is not asking as one who deserves information, nor is he asking as Nasir, the man Castus undeniably desires, but as Nasir, Agron’s lover, who has a hand on the hilt of his dagger. Castus’ eyes flicker down to the weapon at Nasir’s hip, and then flit back up to meet his gaze. Bonds of loyalty and conscience clearly grapple beneath his aloof facade. Possibly an honorable man, Nasir thinks, but certainly not a stupid one. 

“Heracleo’s word gave cause to this belief.” Castus says, and Nasir feels his stomach sink ever lower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed :] Comments are most appreciated!


End file.
